local 606

the day she puts the toaster in the refrigerator

before removing it: this needs an airtight container, first. to prevent unchecked spoilage. silly.

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he is only the words to one slumber
my darling away.

buzzing in the teeth. a genetic
revolution! they open her belly and
petals spill out. her feet

make deep aberrations in the mire, wet ash
sand and the crushed shells of dampier
cove, four kangaroo cross signs

away from the petroglyphs to the end of the indian
ocean; the yawning beryl chamber beneath two
sorrel fingers in the sky. that kind of brightness

mingles with chlorine and the tawny
port freckles of a chest. all the skin
and those of summer

chemicals, to the brilliant parts
of sun, with water chatter. the insects
murmur in the fever of a mississippi

smell and the pines. oh, the red
ground. stately trees–those sentinels. and now
she can be found

outside, between the witching hour and the dawn, she is barefoot to the car, for something. it is the car that, when she travels, the sound moves from left, to right. left to right. when she turns and the car tilts, the sound moves with gravity across the dash, and to the other speaker, opening over the circuits. the sound, it moves and does obey, like water from a higher source. and even now, across is the sound of torrential water. it is soothing, but it is out of place. it is not of a natural source but a broken valve to a hose. and the air is thick, and still. the water brings the only sound. and there is no one else at all. there is just no one else.

she keeps the sprouted bread in the freezer, and the light catches the thin layer of ice on a piece, and then, it is secret of mana. she is nine here. immaterial pain is a boulder to the face, she thinks. a boulder, yes. it obliterates. oh, she has only the analogy of earth sensations with which to describe it all.  on this planet, they code themselves with fashion. and in their markedness, they speak to one another.

lately, she wakes early, before all the things begin. hold fast through the noise! she thinks. and she thinks, of:

“the old house, today i will go there, but if i wear my dress i will look strange–even on the sidewalk in this neighborhood. i will need the disguise of athletic clothing. i am merely taking a walk, yes a walk. how far into their yard can i go? what say the mores? i was young here once, and in this place, some first things were shaped for me.”

“in EMDR, as the dins alternate in my ears and i pat my hands, crossed here, on my chest and also alternating–i see the large, glass windows. there were moments of shame, explicit–crystallized, grown fetid in a darkness–and accessible, to scare, intrigue and purify me, if i go. if i am willing to go, with earthly breath to explore a timeless pocket, a world-shrouded wormhole, that would be delicately hidden, just like the others.”

“i decide first, that i will drive past. i will simply drive until the coffee is gone, i decide. those who live there now, they have flanked the front with colors. legions of flowers are in vigil, and in watch for me and suddenly–this was all before him. that he was not yet born, and how–my chest becomes a hostage in the fray, having just unearthed a ruinous and eager void.”

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This entry was published on September 2, 2014 at 2:36 am. It’s filed under Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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